Slipping
his hand over my nape and into my hair, he eased my head back, tilting my chin
toward his lips. Our eyes met. His gaze was gentle, yet mesmerizing. His other
hand trailed along my collarbone, exploring the neckline of the poet’s blouse.

My
skin tingling, I sucked in a breath.

He
teased one button out of its hole and helped another slip free, then slid one
finger between my breasts.

The
tingle became a sizzle. I lifted my face toward his and we kissed.

Heaven,
the warmth of his mouth on mine. Then a more intense pleasure as our lips
opened, and we began to soul-kiss as naturally as children licking lollipops.

I
grabbed his lapels to bring him in closer. Our tongues met in a languorous

dance, and my sex-starved imagination took flight. I pictured myself seated on
him in the comfortable old chair, my legs spread wide over the padded arms,
while he rocked in and out of me, deeper and deeper, his golden eyes, reaching
inside me, deeper and deeper…

My
body clenched with need, and my hips involuntarily bucked. A husky moan broke
from his throat. Jolted out of my x-rated fantasy, I pulled away.

He
looked as startled as I was. He’d shared my intensity, and I knew he’d been as
shaken as I by the kiss.

On top of that,
she wonders if he's responsible for the harassment and vandalism that's
plaguing her, irritants that escalate into crimes when her workshop is trashed
to the tune of a hundred thousand dollars. The economic damage enables him to
seize her company, bringing him into her life on a daily basis. When her Manhattan loft home is
torched and her assistant murdered, Cara realizes that the man she wants is the
only man who can keep her safe.

Tuesday, May 19, 2015

This has been a banner year for boxed set anthologies, those collections of excellent reading that usually retail for between 99 cents and $2.99. They're great for the reader, of course, and not too bad for struggling midlist writers like me. My books sell far better in a collection than they do as standalones.

After you read it, decide: is my heroine, Cara Fletcher, a fashion star or a fashion victim?

Here's a snippet to pique your interest:

I
stared at the forbidding courthouse, repressing an unnerved shudder. The
four-inch stiletto heels had been a big mistake. I’d worn them to add some height, since five-four isn’t exactly impressive.
Better, the gorgeous periwinkle suede matched my suit. But, given the
slippery-looking stone stairs outside the building, as well as my morning
tranq, I had to struggle, picking my way to avoid falling on my butt. I told
myself it was okay, since I still had twenty minutes before the nine o’clock
hearing.

Even
so, I clung to the rail with a death grip. Once inside, I passed through
security and then found the correct floor. My attorney had said we’d
meet outside the courtroom, but I
didn’t see her.

A
trio of males outside one of the courtrooms grabbed my attention. One of them
raised his head to give me the eye,
and even took a step away from his group. Despite the seriousness of the
situation, I couldn’t help responding.

Hot
wasn’t a hot enough word to describe this guy.

Unfashionably
longish hair with silver streaks. A maverick. He wasn’t afraid to buck the
trend toward brush cuts and no doubt would never dye his hair to look younger.
But despite the hair and body—big, solid, and buffed—it was his eyes that
grabbed me in the gut and wouldn’t
let go. They were an unusual shade of hazel. Golden, really, feral and
predatory, like a wolf. Or maybe one of the great cats. A lion or a cougar.

His
face was all bold planes, with high cheekbones, a strong jaw, narrow but
sensual lips. And a small scar by the side of his mouth . . . how had
he gotten that? A knife fight? A beer bottle in a bar brawl?

I
silently laughed at myself. He probably fell off his bike when he was six. But
still, he was hot. Very hot. Beyond hot.

His
gaze caught mine, and my temperature shot from ninety-eight-point-six to at
least one-oh-two in a second.

A set of nearby double doors
banged open, and I blinked, jolted. A redheaded woman in chic brown tweed burst
into the hall, followed by a phalanx of attorneys, bees swarming their queen.

“I
didn’t pay you thieves a grand an hour to get screwed!” she screamed, her stride an angry clatter on the stony floor.
Buzzing with temper, the group rushed by. I stayed upright until the last
attorney in the swarm plowed into me. The jerk didn’t stop, though my feet slipped
on the marble.

At
my side in an instant, the mysterious, amber-eyed stranger grabbed me

before I hit the floor. He lifted me onto my feet with a gentleness at odds with his
size, his strength, and the uncivilized gleam in his eyes.

“Are
you all right?” The stranger’s pleasant
bass had a slight, sexy southern accent,
which turned me on even more. What was it about a southern accent? Something about it called up all my Rhett Butler
fantasies. I was a sucker for a southern accent.

I looked down. He wasn’t lying. One of the knees of my pantyhose had
ripped. I sighed. “What else can go wrong today?”

He
laughed. “It’s not so bad. Look at it this way. You aren’t paying someone a thousand dollars an hour to get screwed, are
you?”

We
shared a chuckle. “You’re right,” I said. Then I staggered a few steps away
toward the women’s room before recalling
my manners. “Umm, thank you for your help. I hate to seem rude, but I have a
very important court appearance, and I can’t have a run in my hose.”

I
hurried down the hall as fast as I could without risking another fall while
digging in my satchel for the spare pair of pantyhose I hoped I had in there.

When
I emerged, the hall was empty. Sweat
broke out all over my body as I sprinted for the courtroom door. I scurried in
as a bailiff was calling, “All rise!”

I
found my seat next to my lawyer as the judge, an older balding fellow, entered
with a flutter of black robes. He thumped his gavel to begin the hearing as I
looked down the long wooden counsel table.

Then
I saw him. At the opposite end of the
table. Well, hell. Was the hottest of the hot my opponent? My opponent’s
attorney?

I
met his glance then tried to look
cool, calm, collected and in control, but the reality was that everything I
cared about was on the line.

The
bailiff announced the case, and a man sitting next to the hottie stood,
buttoning the jacket of his navy pinstriped three-piece suit. “Michael
Muckenmyer of Muckenmyer, Radcliffe and Soames,
representing the plaintiffs, Fletcher Tool and Gear, Inc., and Fletcher Wolf,
who is present.”

Fletcher
Wolf. I should have known. I had the bad luck to have fallen instantly in lust
with my enemy, a man who could tear apart my life and destroy every one of my
dreams.

Brilliant.
Absolutely brilliant. I recalled what I’d said to Wolf outside the courtroom. What else can go wrong today? Now I
knew.

About Me

Best-selling, award-winning author Suz deMello has written nineteen books in several genres, including nonfiction, memoir, romance, erotica, comedy, historical, paranormal, mystery and suspense, plus a number of short stories and articles on writing. She has also contributed to several bestselling boxed sets. Learn more about her books at her site, suzdemello.com.